“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
— Matthew 11:28 (NIV)
Loneliness brings with it a longing—for conversation, for connection, for someone who will simply listen. Often, we can be surrounded by people and yet feel completely isolated in the room. It’s in those moments that our thoughts tend to take over. A million things swirl through our minds—things we long to say out loud, hoping someone might care enough to hear them.
And so, we begin to ramble to ourselves.
Washing dishes. Sweeping the floor. Folding socks.
The simplest tasks of life become the closest thing to conversation we have. I found myself there—stuffing blankets into the cupboard, talking out loud, letting random thoughts spill into the air, fully aware that no one was listening. My mind jumped from one thought to the next until I suddenly stood still, suspended in a moment that felt detached from reality.
And then, I imagined walking into the fairytale land of Narnia.
Disappearing into the cupboard that stood before me—its presence faint, almost inviting. We often find ourselves dreaming of a place beyond reality, a place that offers escape from everything we carry inside. A world of redemption waiting just beyond the applewood doors. A life untouched by pain, fear, or disappointment.
If only it were that easy.
The weight of real life presses so heavily on our souls that we begin to create a delusion—believing there must be something better, something lighter, somewhere else. Yet, as we journey through this uncharted land of fantasy, we quickly discover that even it is plagued by an eternal winter. Betrayal comes from those closest to us. Innocence is stripped away by deeper magic. And the escape we longed for becomes nothing more than a reflection of our own broken reality.
And then—we see Aslan.
The creator. The redeemer.
The one who transforms this place of escape into a mirror of truth. Suddenly, it becomes clear: the sinner is desperate—for forgiveness, for redemption, for salvation. Desperate for a Savior willing to lay Himself down, taking on every sin of humanity.
I close the applewood doors.
I snap back to reality.
And in that moment, I realize my burdens were never meant to be carried into another world—they were meant to be laid at the altar. His grace is sufficient for me. Always. Every single day of my life.
Lord,
You see the quiet moments—the cupboards, the silence, the words spoken into empty rooms. You see the longing, the exhaustion, the places we wish we could escape from and the places we wish would save us. Help us to remember that true redemption is not found beyond imaginary doors, but at Your feet. Teach us to lay down what is heavy, to stop carrying what was never ours to hold, and to trust that Your grace is enough—right here, in this life, on this day. Amen.
Life As A PTSD Wife 